


all are punish'd

by MercutioLives



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assisted Suicide, Brothers, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Coercion, Depression, Drabble Collection, Everything Hurts, Family Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Post-Canon, Prompt Fill, Revenge, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Male Character, Tumblr Prompt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 10:19:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10358160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercutioLives/pseuds/MercutioLives
Summary: Mercutio is dead, Paris is dead, and Valentine knows exactly who's to blame.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tveckling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tveckling/gifts).



> This started as a simple prompt fill over on Tumblr, but morphed into a set of three drabbles.
> 
> Original prompt: **Ok because I crave more Mercutio and Paris interactions: Q. One missed call. Feel free to involve the rest of the Escalus family if you want :DD**

Paris hissed an exasperated sigh when Mercutio’s phone clicked over to voicemail:  _ Oh shit, looks like you missed me! Go ahead and leave a message if you’re still living in the Dark Ages. Otherwise, just send me a text. _   
  
“Mercutio, seriously. I’ve texted you  _ five times _ already and you haven’t answered. Call me back.” He hung up and stuffed his phone into his pocket. Did he honestly believe his cousin would return his call? Not really. He loved the kid, but Mercutio was the most contrary little monster he’d ever met. The only people whose calls and texts he answered without fail were Valentine and those two Montague hooligans. Not even their uncle could boast that, which was why the sudden radio silence was unnerving: Valentine had been the first to try and contact him, only to receive no reply.   
  
His phone rang a couple of minutes later, and he snatched it up with lightning speed, only to see Valentine’s name on the screen. He answered.   
  
_ “Have you gotten ahold of him yet?” _ Poor kid sounded worried out of his mind - not that Paris blamed him. Although he himself was an only child, it would take a real idiot not to recognize how close his cousins were to one another. They were pretty much attached at the hip growing up, and even now that they were teenagers - the age when most siblings wanted nothing to do with one another - not much of their relationship had changed.   
  
“Not yet, Val. I’ll keep trying, though. His phone probably died - you know he always forgets to charge it.”   
  
_ “Y-yeah. Probably. Thanks, Paris. I know you’re busy.” _   
  
“It’s no problem, kiddo. We’re family. Let me know if he turns up, alright?” Valentine agreed, and they hung up. Paris felt guilty for lying: Mercutio’s phone had rang a couple times before voicemail picked up; if it had been dead, it would have clicked over automatically.   
  
They found Mercutio some hours later. His phone was in his hand, the touchscreen smeared with the blood from his fingers, the LED still blinking.


	2. Chapter 2

Valentine didn't attend the Montague or Capulet funerals. It was hard enough to sit through the funerals of his own brother and cousin, and even though diplomacy demanded he be present for the others,  _ no one  _ could make him stand there and mourn the people who had murdered his family. The old priest spoke useless words over Mercutio, slightly different useless words over Paris, and then other people came to lie about how beloved each of them were. Valentine didn't listen to any of it: the false sadness passed in one ear and out the other. (Later, people whispered about how disrespectful he had been, staring down at his phone the entire time. None of them recognized Mercutio's phone case, or noticed that his own was in his pocket.)

The only words he listened to were his uncle's, and Benvolio's - the latter with clenched teeth and tense shoulders. Uncle E's eulogy was true and honest, and maybe Benvolio's was too, but all Valentine could think about was how much gall he had for showing up, when it was his fault Mercutio was dead to begin with.

_ "Why did you leave him alone? You could've helped him!" _

_ "He told me to go, he wouldn't let me stay." _

_ "That's bullshit! He was supposed to be your best friend, and now he's dead because you ran away." _

The memory of the conversation overlaid Benvolio's words of mourning in his mind, morphing into a jumble that only served to further stoke his anger. Valentine  was the last one to speak, but although he had a speech already written up, when he got to the front he couldn't take it seriously anymore. So he just rambled:

"When I was three and Mercutio was seven, our parents died. Our dad was killed in an accident, and our mom got sick shortly after. We came here to live with our uncle, who basically adopted us. We were kind of awful kids at first, causing all kinds of trouble because we wanted to just go home. Mercutio was always the leader, and I followed him; he was the one person I always felt safe with, no matter what. I don't really remember our parents - Uncle E's always been my dad - but Mercutio always made sure I never felt alone or abandoned, because I think that's how he felt after Mom and Dad were gone and I knew he didn't want that for me."

He paused a moment, Mercutio's phone still tight in his hands, and drew a long, shuddering breath.

"Paris was older than us by a couple years. He helped us get used to things here, too, and even though he and Mercutio fought a lot, the three of us got along pretty well. He could have just ignored us, but he didn't. He made us feel like family, even though his parents, our parents, and Uncle E didn't really get along much. Neither of them deserved to be murdered, but they were, and they both deserve justice for what was done to them. I won't sit by and let it slip through the cracks."

He stepped down and returned to his seat amongst whispers that he didn't try to overhear. Just before he sat down, he caught a glimpse of Benvolio near the back, his face blanched white.  _ Good, _ Valentine thought.  _ He ought to be afraid. _

The funeral came to an end shortly after that, and everyone went about their separate business. Benvolio tried to approach him and his uncle, but Valentine muttered that he'd be waiting in the car and kept walking.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HATE MYSELF FOR THIS BUT IT'S ALL TVECKLING'S FAULT OKAY.
> 
>  **Trigger warnings for this chapter:** Mental illness / breakdown, suicidal thoughts and actions, coercive behavior.

Since the deaths of Mercutio and Paris, Valentine's waking hours became consumed by his need to see justice served. At first, he had begged his uncle to help him - _Benvolio could have saved him! He didn't even call the police!_ \- but Escalus had made up his mind.

"Everyone," he had said, "has suffered enough. We don't need to perpetuate this any further." Although Valentine was infuriated by his uncle's willful blindness, he was not at all surprised by it: he had never cared for conflict, and avoided it as much as possible. From allowing his nephews to fight out their childhood disagreements, to turning his back on the Montague-Capulet feud until it was laid right at his own doorstep, he had done nothing but sit on his hands. Valentine knew that he was on his own in this: he would see it through, no matter how long it took.

Roughly a year after the murders, Benvolio left Verona. Old Ignacio Montague was recently dead, and although Benvolio was the sole surviving heir to the fortune, he apparently had no use for the vast amounts of wealth that he finally had a claim to. Instead, like the good kid he pretended to be, he donated the majority to various charities, keeping only enough to buy a plane ticket to wherever. It didn't matter to Valentine: he knew Benvolio well enough to be certain that he'd come back eventually.

The years passed, and Valentine watched as his uncle's health deteriorated bit by bit. Eventually, he was too ill to work, and it was up to Val to take care of him and the family business. It was a task he undertook without complaint or hesitation, for even though their relationship too had eroded piece by piece, the fact remained that they were family. They were all each other had left, and soon Valentine knew he would be completely alone.

It happened late on a Tuesday evening, and the funeral came exactly a week later. The turnout was far more than for Mercutio and Paris, but that was unsurprising. Relatives Valentine had never met came to offer their condolences ( _probably in hopes of gaining something,_ he thought bitterly), and so did complete strangers. Most, however, were employees and business partners: for as non-combative as he was, Escalus was a good employer and was generally well-regarded by the community. The funeral itself wasn't fussy or overly long, and many people offered kind words after Valentine gave the eulogy.

(It was overall more sincere-feeling than the services of his brother and cousin, Valentine noted.)

When Benvolio Montague stepped up to speak, Valentine watched him intently. Contrary to his prior belief, Benvolio had not returned to Verona, so he'd been forced to invite him to the funeral. His mind wandered very briefly to his uncle's handgun, which he had tucked inside his suit jacket. It was heavy, and he'd only fired it a few times before, but he felt confident that he could do what needed to be done when the time came.

Bit by bit, things wrapped up, and Valentine thanked everyone in turn for coming and for their kind words. Benvolio approached him last of all, looking more careworn and exhausted than he remembered.

"I'm not sure what to say," said Benvolio as he shifted uncomfortably. "It's been a long time, and I know you still probably haven't forgiven me for what happened to Mercutio, but…" He tapered off, shrugged, stuffed his hands in his pockets. Valentine didn't say anything at first, but opened his jacket just a little so that Benvolio could see the black grip of the gun.

"Come with me, and don't say anything. Don't talk to anyone else. Nod if you understand." Benvolio nodded, white-faced as he had been all those years ago. Valentine smiled, a near-perfect approximation of sincerity which he'd learned from his brother when they were teenagers. The two of them walked into the house, nearly side-by-side. Valentine kept up a nonsensical one-sided conversation as they walked, once again imitating his brother in a way that made his stomach turn. Nobody noticed them descend all the way to the basement, they were too busy eating and talking and laughing amongst themselves to care.

Valentine had always hated the basement of his uncle's house. It had never been finished, so it was dark and musty; when they were children, Mercutio would always try and goad him into going down there at night and laugh when he refused. Now he forced Benvolio down ahead of him, watching as he was swallowed by the darkness before flicking on one of the dim, uncovered light bulbs. The gun was out and in his hand, heavier than he remembered. He pulled the hammer back, but left his finger off the trigger.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" His voice sounded hollow to his own ears. Everything felt bizarrely empty, almost like he was in a dream.

"You don't have to do this," Benvolio said, his own voice quaking and thick with tears. "Please, Val. Mercutio wouldn't want -"

"Shut up! You don't get to talk about him. It's _your_ fault he's dead, and you know it, no matter how many fucking excuses you give. But you can make it right, Benvolio. You can finally make up for what you did." An edge of hysteria sharpened Valentine's words, and Benvolio shook his head, crying openly and trembling in terror of the boy who used to be Mercutio's little brother. He closed his eyes and waited for the shot, but nothing happened. Slowly, his eyelids parted again to see the gun thrust out, its muzzle turned instead to face Valentine. His expression turned to one of abject horror.

"Val, no…"

"It's the _only way_. I can't do it myself, or else I'll never see him again. This way, everything will be fine. Take the gun, Benvolio. You owe me this." Valentine watched with wide, wild eyes as Benvolio reached out and took the handgun from him. He nodded and gently, almost reverently, lifted Benvolio's hands so that the muzzle was pressed to his forehead.

"Val, this doesn't have to happen." He was whimpering now, and the gun shook against Valentine's forehead. "You're not well right now. I know - I _know_ how much it hurts, to lose the people you love. I've lost everyone, too. But we can get you help. I know someone, a really good counselor, and we can put this behind us."

"No, no, no - it has to be this. I can't be alone, Benvolio, I _can't_. Please do this for me, okay? I wrote a letter, it's upstairs in my room, saying that I wanted this to happen. You won't get into any trouble, so please, just pull the trigger, nice and steady. You don't even have to look." He heard Benvolio swallow thickly, heard him whimper.

"I'm sorry."

There was nothing after that.


End file.
